


Tempting... Tempting...

by TheWallHadItComing233



Category: Dracula - Bram Stoker, Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Bathing/Washing, Blood Kink, Bloodplay, Chapter Lengths Vary, Eyes, John's POV, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Not Really Character Death, Pet Names, Porn With Plot, Possessiveness, Sensuality, Tags May Change, The Author Regrets Everything, The Author Regrets Nothing, Vampire Family, Vampire Sex, Vampire Turning, Vamplock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-20
Updated: 2015-05-23
Packaged: 2018-02-26 08:55:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 9
Words: 7,664
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2645846
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheWallHadItComing233/pseuds/TheWallHadItComing233
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John's POV, like Jonathan's journal</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

 

> "There was a deliberate voluptuousness which was both thrilling and repulsive, and as [he] arched [his] neck [he] actually licked [his] lips like an animal... I could feel the soft, shivering touch of the lips on my throat, and the hard dents of two sharp teeth, just touching and pausing there. I closed my eyes in a languorous ecstasy and waited- waited with beating heart." -Bram Stoker, Dracula

_16, May (past mid-night, 15, May)_ Should my dearest Mary ever read this, I know our relationship would be ended, but as these words may be my very last, coming from the Count's mansion, no less, I must write them. _(Mem.: Remove this page if ever I arrive at home.)_

In my troublingly pointless search for an escape, I came across a man; of pale complexion and excessive tall frame, thin build. He did not seem to notice me at first, but as I turned to exit with held breath, he awoke and approached me. I had not turned, but I felt the shift in air, the shiver that raced up my spine like the dreaded train in which I arrived at this house of horrors. I remained, my back turned toward him, my throat tightening to hold back tears from my fear of this creature. At my stopped movement, he, himself, stepped closer.

My chest expanded and held, as any sudden shake could startle the animal that lay in the creature's mind. He lifted his hand slowly and placed it on the back of my neck, heel of his palm on the top of my spine, fingers laced in my greasy blonde hair. His cool hand softened my muscles, just the simple touch of human skin soothing me like it hadn't in weeks. He tugged urgingly on my hair until my head twisted 'round, my body following suit when necessary. His hand never left my neck as he stepped yet closer, our bodies lying but centimetres apart. It felt like kilometres, so close, so available, yet ever unreachable. He spoke not a word to me, but I felt as though I knew him, was close to him in a way akin to love coupled with a lust somewhat unfamiliar to me.

He leaned down from his place, slightly above me, until our lips touched, our temperatures reaching equilibrium within us, him cooling me, yet setting a fire ablaze in my stomach. I'd felt arousal like this before, but never in the presence of another, not even Mary, until we are wed. The creature pulled away, licking my taste from his lips. He lowered himself again, this time, leaning toward the side to connect his lips with my neck. They were a contrast to my cracked ones, his own being soft but strong, thin but supple all the same.

He pressed his lips to my neck with a greater insistence, and I arched it against him, allowing more access. My pulse thrummed beneath my skin, pounded like an animal in a cage, demanding to be set free. My member hardened in my trousers in simple concoction of anticipation and apprehension. He lifted his lips away from preternaturally sharp teeth and pressed them against my pulse-point in warning, leaving me time to comprehend his fiendish intent. He pierced them through my skin, electrifying my nerve endings with a sickeningly, horridly perfect mixture of pain and pleasure.

I was not aware of the obscene sounds that slipped from my open lips, but by the corners of this creatures mouth reaching a higher point on my neck, I became aware- quickly, at that. His teeth slid slickly out of the holes he'd created in my neck and blood rushed out of the surface. I heard nothing but the muted sounds of white noise that both originated from and fell into my mind. He pressed his hips against mine, and, in turn, my back against the half-open door, slamming it shut.

This provided such inglorious friction for me to rut against, matching the speed of each pulse of blood that rushed into the creature's mouth. He drank greedily, sucking at the wounds, causing supernovae to shine behind my closed eyes. 

Heavy, labourious breaths were forced from my mouth, my heart pounding madly in my chest, skittering each time his sucked from my neck. He pulled away and kissed me soundly, letting the blood flow messily onto my white night shirt, staining it a dark crimson. His mouth tasted of bittersweet metal, his tongue invaded my mouth, pushing an animalistic moan from it. 

He dropped his hand to stroke idly at my throbbing member, making my body spasm and jerk as I came in my trousers, the viscous liquid staining a spot on them. He pulled away from our kiss to lick at my wound until it healed. 

Only was it after the release of tension that I realised how much he'd drained from me, it coming in the form of dizzy light-headedness. He ripped one of his veins from his wrist out with his teeth and put it to my lips. "Drink," he mumbled, the first spoken word between us.

I did as I was told and drank from his wrist, the smooth liquid running down my throat. He wrapped his powerful, but gentle fingers around the back of my neck, urging me on. I put my hands up to his arm, gripping it tightly and sucking harshly at his wounds. After a few of the longest moments in my experience, the wounds healed, and he picked me up with ease to lay down in the coffin he'd been sleeping in with him. I laid down with him, my head against his chest, listening to the lack of heartbeat, and drifted off into sleep.


	2. Chapter 2

_17 May, perhaps_ As I awoke from my slumber, the dark-haired creature beneath me still sleeping lightly, it was as pitch-black as it was when we laid down, save for a few hot embers that glowed a sunset orange about the room. The euphoric state in which I had been when this man drank my blood had since faded, leaving me in full control of my stringent and necessary inhibitions that he had shattered with his glowing white teeth.

However so, my brain still swam as I sat up in the small, wooden box we had slept in. It took me a few moments to realise I was ensnared in a transport for the dead. It had intricate engravings along the sides, and cover, initials in broad cursive along the top, where the head would lie under-  _SH._  It took a few moments for my sleep-adled mind to understand that the initials belonged to my adulterer.

I put a hand up to my neck, running my fingers along where the sore would have been, but found nothing aside from slightly stubbled skin. I curiously felt that spot for a few more moments to try to understand. I didn't.

The creature's multicolored eyes flashed open, and he pulled my head back down onto his chest. "S.H.?" I queried softly.

His body hardened beneath mine. "Sherlock Holmes," he allowed, voice tight. I could tell he wasn't privy to talking quite that often. There was gravel in his throat, but his voice was low, and quiet. That of a secretive and secluded man. 

I buried my head in his chest, guilt building in my own. "I should not have done this," I mumbled, the air of my words reflecting off of his skin and warming my face. 

"Regret is a waste of time," he said simply, holding me close. 

 _Of course it is, but that doesn't stop it from happening,_ I thought, but remained silent. I sat up once more and used the edges of the coffin to lift myself up and out of its silken interior. I stood beside it, questions running through my mind. He sat up in his coffin as well and looked up at me, tacitly asking why I left. I met his enthralling eyes and could only stand the intensity for a short while before I had to look away. I had no idea where to start as far as questions went, so I chose one at random: "Why did you drink my blood?"

He tilted his head slightly in thought. "Because I wanted to," he said, smirking, obviously content with his answer.

"What are you?" I asked, sighing at his brevity.

"I am Vampire," he said seriously, the smirk leaving his face.

I was taken aback by this. I thought about the idea, however ludicrous, entertained it in my mind. It would work. He drank my blood, slept in a cof--

"As are you." His words snapped me from thought into harsh, bitter reality.

 _I am not_ , the words played on my tongue, but were not released from my lips by my own will. "And it would be... your doing, that I am like this?" I asked, my throat tightening for the second time in his overwhelming presence. He nodded curtly. I turned from him, no longer able to see him.

Tears welled up in my eyes as my thoughts drifted to Mary. I'd never be able to leave this godless house. I'd never be able to see my love again, and if I could, she would not want the beast from Hell this Holmes had turned me into.

He rose from his coffin and came up behind me, wrapping his arms around my waist. "The Count commanded I not bother you, that you were his," he said, lips close to my neck again. I tilted my head subconsciously. "But you're mine now," he finished softly, running his teeth along the tendons in my neck, teasing the skin there into pebbling. He didn't pierce, but he held my body flush against his, my member twitching at the feeling of having him so close. My mind fought my body for control, my love for Mary and my lust for this man at war with one another.

"Do not," I begged quietly of him, knowing that he didn't let my pleading affect his decision. "Please... Not again." _I must stay loyal to Mary. I have broken her trust already. I mustn't do it again,_ my mind screamed, while I pressed further back against him. He put his hand over my chest, and silenced my thoughts, leaving thoughts of only him in its wake.

The Count burst in the door. "Sherlock!" he growled, fury blazing like the flames of Hell in his eyes. Sherlock kept his hand on my chest as we took a combined step backward.

The Count ripped Sherlock's hand away and pulled me toward him. He bared his teeth at the younger Vampire, but froze as his fingers traveled over my wrist. "Did you let him drink from you?" he asked of me, voice low, dangerous, menacing even. I nodded timidly and he wrapped his fingers around my throat tightly. "Did you lie with him?" he asked in the same tone. I nodded once more.

He threw me away from his body as though he had touched a fire, and turned his attention to Sherlock. With the rapidity of lightning, he had the younger Vampire pinned against a wall by his neck, feet dangling and kicking slightly in the air. "You have violated and adulterated my pet," the Count's voice rumbled. He tightened his grip on Sherlock's pale throat and I watched the cords in it strain against his skin.

Sherlock closed his eyes in submission. "I will take care of him," he promised solemnly. His eyes flickered up from a brief moment to lock onto mine. "I swear."

"He has a wife," the Count said, lowering Sherlock onto his feet again. "We will have to stage something so she does not expect him." He paused after that. "No. It's your mess. You clean it up, and properly." I knew not of what he spoke, but I stood in my place, not daring to move in the presence of those exponentially stronger that I. He left the room. The gusts of air as he passed slammed the door shut.

No, then. I will not leave this house. Not ever. Goodbye, my sweet Mary. I wish you well. 


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The response I've gotten on this is astonishing. Thank you so, so, so, so, so much!

_Haven't the faintest (Mem.: Find calendar soon.)_ The Count took my journal, so I was forced to find paper on which to collect my thoughts. I'll be sure to paste this parchment into my journal if I ever get the chance. I've been locked in the room the served as my bedroom during my stay in the mansion. It has naught in the form of windows, or a calendar, so I cannot watch the days pass to count.

I am alone, but the Count slides a platter of food under the door every few hours or so. I have found myself with a growing distaste for the cuisine; perhaps my stomach has longing for food from my home. But any food I eat leaves a bitter, disgusting taste on my tongue. I have not seen any sign of the Count or the ever-elusive Holmes, who claims to have turned me into one of his own.

Last night, or day, or whatever, (the last time I slept), I dreamt of Mary. I miss her very dearly, and my guilt for adultery is increasingly heavy. It was our wedding night - in the dream - and just as we were to consummate our marriage, I was forced to drink her blood as Holmes had mine. And, as atrocious as I found the act, my body enjoyed it. There was a small, wet stain on the bed beneath me when I awoke. How horrid! she would find me if she knew of my thoughts. I've a mind to burn my journal if I ever escape, or lock it tightly in a box and throw the key into a river.

One night, or day, or when I was supposed to be sleeping, the Count peered at me through the thin slit below my door. I kept my eyelids closed halfway, my eyelashes covering the rest of my eyes so I could peer back at him. His eyes were a terrifying, glowing red with pulsing pink highlights that flickered dangerously. This man is no man, he mustn't be. I have not seen Sherlock's eyes this colour yet. No, instead, Sherlock's merely fade from green, to blue, to grey, to hazel, to brown, and so. They were never threatening, but ever unnatural. Ever beautiful, despite.

I hate having these thoughts of another. It makes a guilt that weighs down my chest, makes my stomach acid boil, makes bile rise in my throat, but to no avail as I have nothing that would come up. Perhaps, I must eat. Perhaps, that is part of the reason acid is burning my esophagus; there is nothing else to burn. 

Perhaps, I hope, that acid will burn me entirely. Perhaps, my dearest Journal, I will be let out of this horrible room, with these both enthralling and terrifying men. Perhaps, Journal, I should rest. Good-night, -morning, -whatever.


	4. Chapter 4

_21, May_ The Count came in this morning and returned my journal. He didn't speak, but he sat on ~~my bed~~ the bed on which I've been sleeping, and reached for my hand. He wrapped his cold fingers around mine and we sat like that for a long minute. Every touch he gave me felt like an apology, from the moment our fingers brushed when he handed me the notebook. He seems very sad.

When he left my room, he left the door unlocked, so I wandered the house, looking for Holmes. I didn't know why, but I, at least, needed to see a familiar face.

I found him in the same room in which I last saw him. His mess of dark brown hair was knotted and tangled as he arose from his bed. I can't imagine it's comfortable to sleep in.

He opened his preternaturally beautiful eyes and glanced at me. He patted his lap, and I padded over to his coffin. I crawled inside, straddling his lap. He put his hands on my hips. "How did you sleep?" he mumbled in the same soft but uncomfortable voice as before.

"I slept well enough. How did you sleep?" I asked, leaning down to rest my head on his silken shirt.

He put his hands on the small of my back, holding me very close. "For a short while and lightly. But it was fine. Just lay."

I did as I was told and rested my eyes shut, just breathing slowly for a long while.

Sherlock kissed my greasy hair softly. "You should bathe, pet," he said, more of a command than a request. The Vampire pushed me slightly so I was sitting up, and stood, holding my hips so he could lift me. He carried me over the bathroom and set me down on the smooth ground, it cold against the calloused pads on my feet. He ran water into the metal basin, and I watched as steam rose from it. The Count certainly did like his amenities.

When the tub was full, Sherlock helped me get undressed and into it. The water burned against my skin, but slowly grew to be a soothing warmth. He pulled a rough rag from the edge of the tub and ran the wet part of it against my chest. The grain drew black dirt from my skin and the dirt fell away, into the water. He continued this on my extremities until the water was a dark grey. It had been nearly a month since I'd last bathed.

Sherlock was quiet, and attentive, making sure to polish every bit of me, only speaking when he needed me to turn or move so he could reach a certain part of me. When he reached my member, however, he hesitated. 

"I-I can do it myself," I offered softly, looking up at the supernovae he had in place of eyes.

He gulped and shook his head adamantly. "This is mine to touch. Mine alone," said he. "I would not have you touch yourself." I could tell he still wasn't sure, but after a few moments, he released the rag, knowing it would be too rough. He wrapped his fingers around my most sensitive part and rubbed slightly to remove dirt. My breath hitched and I shivered under his touch. His hands were warm from the water, his fingers wrinkled. I moaned quietly at the feeling, leaning my head back against the rim of the tub. 

He moved his hand lower to brush against my entrance. My member was nearly hard, and he undoubtedly knew it. "I've missed you, pet," he mumbled, pressing with a greater insistence. I'd done this to myself before, dignity be damned, and, aside from the pain, I enjoyed it very, very much. 

I was silent for a too-long moment and it took much of my resolve to even whimper the word, "Please." I felt safe enough to beg him, but too terrified to command him to do anything. 

He pulled away. "Not yet, pet," he said, quiet and slightly coddling. "But soon." I gave an annoyed groan. "Now, now, love. Don't fight me on this. I've a gift for you, and we need to wait until it gets here." Sherlock's teasing was to be the death of me. 

* * *

After my bath, and after I'd willed my erection down, Sherlock dressed me and dragged me out to the dining room table. The Count was sitting there, sipping on a glass of dark red wine. His eyes were the same dangerous crimson as they had been, but, as he noticed us, they flickered back to his soft brown. He glanced to Sherlock and glared at him. "Have you made love with him?" the Count asked angrily. 

Sherlock looked down at me. "No. He hasn't had fresh blood yet," he said, eyes flashing to the supernatural red.

"I will not let you make him kill someone!" the Count growled, pushing himself up and away from the table. He walked over to us. 

"He won't kill anyone, James. Just feed from her."

"Do I have any say in this?" I asked incredulously. 

"No," they said together. 

"And then where will she go? Back home, with the knowledge of us?" the Count asked. 

Sherlock shook his head. "No. She'll be turned." 

The Count growled. "John is yours now. Take care of him as you will, but I will not allow him to feed from that innocent woman under my roof."

Sherlock sighed. "He's still yours too."

I stepped away from both of them. "I am my own!" I yelled at them. "You don't own me!" 

Sherlock grabbed me and bit me with dull teeth. My eyes fluttered shut and I pressed against him. "Yes, we do," he said quietly. "You're ours."


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the betterment of comprehension, I will add that this story is being written down by John as Sherlock told it to him, so it is Sherlock's point of view.

The Story of Consulting Detective, Sherlock S. Holmes, and Count James Moriarty, as transcribed by Dr. John H. Watson

Despite the sun that was high in the sky, the clouds created a thin veneer which obstructed all-but a few small rays of sunlight from touching the ground. In fact, as I think of it, I don't believe I've ever seen the man in true sunlight. But, I diverge. I was working on a case, and as I was traveling to the scene of the crime on Brixton, my carriage was halted by a man who dashed out in front of it, no fear of being hit, before he continued on his path across the street and into an alleyway. Of course, I was intrigued. A man who does not flinch in the face of death, a man who does not fear being absolutely trampled by an animal who is at least two times his own weight.

The man was wearing a dark cloak that was lined with a red silken fabric and an undoubtedly expensive suit beneath it. His eyes were wide, and dark umber in colour, and as I stepped into his field of vision, he tensed and they flickered to a fiery red. My own ~~valiance~~  prompted me to step forward. "Good morning, sir," I said, breathing deeply, slowly, not letting any emotions show.

His eyes faded back to brown. "Good morning," he replied, an Irish lilt with dramatic cadences tinted his voice, making him seem wildly upbeat. His gaze traveled over my body, taking everything in, presumably making a many simple observations as he could. "You're not afraid of me."

I laughed softly at his confusion. "If I were to be afraid of everything that was different, I never would have left my flat," I said. "No, I am not afraid of you; but I am curious. You're not human. No man has eyes of red."

He hummed and stepped closer, his eyes thinning to observe me closely. "No, I am not human; that much is correct." His tone was... proud. "But," he continued, "what species am I if not human?" He smiled, sure that I couldn't correctly answer. Amateur.

I hummed softly and walked a circle around the beast. I stepped even closer and his nostrils flared by millimetres. His smile showed a hint of edged teeth that dug into his lower lip. "Pull your coat open," I requested. He did so, revealing nothing but a nice dress shirt. I took a deep breath in and stepped away with a knowing smile. "You have sharp teeth, sharper than most men; made for tearing flesh, not chewing. You  _smelled_ me as I approached you, and I did the same. You smell of rot, and of metal; of blood. And you wear no cross, which has risks of its own where we live." I paused. "So, it's simple. You  _can't_ exist."  _  
_

He laughed softly. "James," he said, holding his hand out for me to shake. "And I _absolutely_ exist."

I reached for a cool hand and shook it. "Sherlock Holmes. And you can't. They're legends. Fairy tales to keep little children tucked away in their beds."

"Do you want proof?" he asked, and gripped my hand tightly to pull me close. He used his other hand to tilt my head to the side, revealing my neck. "I haven't eaten fresh for a week, at least." He pressed his fangs against my pulse point which pounded rapidly, the only evidence of fear in me. 

"Yes," I said quietly, tilting my head even further, providing him with greater access. He slipped his fangs into my neck as slowly as he could, making my neck ache and burn, making it send angry pulses and warning to my mind. I made soft, pained noises and my eyes squeezed tightly shut as I tried to breathe through the discomfort. He drank from my neck for minutes that were dressed as hours and my head throbbed. He pulled away and let blood stream down my neck and onto my shirt as my vision grew black. 

* * *

I woke up in what is now my bed with my arms tied firmly behind my back. I made to horrible mistake of head-butting the lid of the coffin which was locked,  _securely_. It was, as I'd estimated, nearly an hour before James opened it. "Do you need more proof?" he laughed softly. I used my bound hands to lift myself up.

I groaned at the placebic pain that sparked in my neck and shook my head. "Why-- Where am I?" I asked, turning to look at my surroundings. 

"My home. You didn't think I'd just let you go, did you?" he asked belittlingly, smiling brightly at me.

I scoffed. "Perhaps not, but I don't need to be bound. I won't run," I lied, smiling back. 

He hummed softly, and crawled into the coffin on top of me, reaching to untie my wrists. He sat back onto my thighs. "I can't trust you," he said. "But I suppose I don't need to." I smirked and put my hands on his shoulders, attempting to push him back. "Ooh, I love a challenge. You are a feisty one," he laughed and easily pinned me back in the wooden box.

I struggled against his hold, pushing my arms out to the sides, breaking his grasp on me momentarily to scramble out of the box. He quickly ran to the door and leaned his back against it. He drew his hand up and examined his nails before looking back to me with a devious smirk. "You'll never beat me, Sherlock," he giggled. I sighed, and put my gaze on the ground in a mockery of defeat.

"You'll get out of this room eventually. You just need to show me I can trust you with free run of this house," he said and opened the door to let himself out. He stopped in the doorway. "I have a visitor coming in a few days. You are to stay in this room and not bother him, under  _any_ circumstances. Am I understood, Sherlock?"

"Yes, James."


	6. Chapter 6

_28 May_ "I've been here about as long as you have," finished Sherlock with a hushed sigh. "I'm," he paused a moment to collect his words, " _young._ " He held my head to his chest as we laid in his bed, his fingers running through my clean hair.

"You don't seem young," I said, my eyes fluttering shut. 

"Well, I hope I don't seem  _old_ ," Sherlock murmured playfully. I laughed softly and pulled away to look at that devious smirk.

"T-that's not what what I mean, Sherlock. I just meant... You seem more... experienced," said I, desperately tugging words from a mind that chose not to supply them.

Sherlock chuckled softly. "Stop there," he advised. "You are only making a fool of yourself." 

I laughed with him and rested my head on his chest with a contented sigh. I brought a hand up to run it across the pale expanse of flesh; it was firm but had no easily discernible muscle, giving a modest strength to him that was completely and utterly enthralling. "You're a beautiful man," I hummed thoughtfully. 

"I'm not a man anymore, John. Nor are you," Sherlock corrected, breathing slowly out of what I assumed was habit, completely contradicting his statement. I matched the rise and fall of his chest until we created a slow-beating heart, expanding and contracting as our mixed blood flowed through our bodies. I don't think I would have been able to leave him, even if I'd wanted to. We were connected, and both he and I knew that.

"You are a man to me, Sherlock, and man to me is man enough," I retorted, planting a soft kiss on his sternum. "I can tell that, as pertaining to vampirism, willingness is oft not a key factor."

"I'm sorry," Sherlock mumbled, and carded his fingers through my hair as an apology for turning me into a beast like himself, like the Count. I nodded my acceptance. He continued on our conversation, "You cease to remember that I accepted my fate."

"Accepting the inevitable requires little. You knew it was going to happen, and you knew you couldn't stop it; that's not acceptance, that's acknowledgment," I said with a proud smile.

"You feared me. You feared me, and still, you let me turn you," Sherlock said. "Why?" He pulled himself up and positioned me to have a leg on either side of his, my lap tucked closely against his own, to ensure that neither of us would be drawn into the kind oblivion of sleep as we spoke. 

"I didn't let you turn me; I let you drink from me," I corrected. "I didn't know that I would be. I was simply... lost in arousal." The final words came out as a quiet whisper, a sign of my guilt.

"Do I turn you on, John?" Sherlock asked quietly as he ran a hand up and down my spine.

"Yes," I said in response, looking up at him, that malicious smirk dancing on his lips again. He laughed and kissed me softly on the jaw. Sherlock lifted a hand to lace his fingers in my hair. He kissed his way up my jaw to meet my lips in a passionate lock. I moaned quietly, pressing closer to him. "I-I want--" 

"I know," Sherlock murmured against my lips. He rolled his hips up to meet mine and I arched my back against him. He chuckled quietly in his sensual baritone, and arousal spiked in my groin. He nipped at my lip, before he leant down further to bite my neck with sharp teeth. "May I drink from you?" he asked quietly, pulling away to meet my eyes. I nodded frantically and arched my neck for him. He leaned forward and pierced my neck, moaning as my blood flooded his mouth. My eyes fluttered shut and I moaned with him, my body melting against his. 

Sherlock flipped us over, my legs still wrapped around his hips. He lifted them up to wrap around his waist. "Please... Please... Take me," I groaned, squeezing my eyes shut tighter. 

He nodded slowly, a dangerous smile on his lips. "This will be our first time together, like this," Sherlock reminded quietly. "Are you sure you want it to be like this?" I nodded again, not trusting my own voice. Sherlock pushed my trousers and pants down as he lowered himself so he was eye-level with my groin. He licked a stripe up my member before he pulled away to whisper, "It's been a very long time since I've done this." He flicked his tongue against my entrance, and my sharp intake of breath followed. I arched my back against him, my hands dropping to grip his hair tightly. 

"Sherlock, please," I whimpered quietly, my eyes opening. They were glazed over, and unfocused. He glanced up at me with a satisfied smirk. The vampire flicked his tongue against my entrance again, before digging it in slightly. He gave a soft moan to match my own, and my fingers tightened in his hair. Sherlock pressed his tongue in more, so nearly half of it was buried within me. He curled the organ inside of me to press against the bundle of nerves that sent spasms up and down my body, from the tips of my toes, to my fingertips, to the crown of my head. 

Sherlock pulled his tongue out of me and thrusted it further in, slicking my insides and preparing me. "Please... Hurry up," I moaned quietly. "I need you." Sherlock laughed softly and obeyed, pressing his tongue in as far as he could to coat my insides in saliva.

Sherlock pulled his tongue out of me, and moved himself to lean over me. "Are you ready, John?" he whispered. I nodded quickly as a response, and he slowly pressed into me. "Mmm... John..." he groaned. He shifted slightly before he started thrusting slowly. 

"Please, Sherlock," I begged, my voice rough and ragged with lust. "Harder. Faster." I rutted against him as he gradually picked up pace, thrusting more swiftly. I moaned my gratefulness and he moaned with me. He grabbed my hips and held me still as attempted to squirm beneath him. 

Sherlock angled his hips slightly to slam into my prostate harshly. My cries were continuous, spiking each time he battered that sensitive spot in me. Sherlock's breathing was broken as he moaned against my neck. He pierced the dried wound open again and sucked from it. We both cried out as he drank from me. "Please. I-I'm close, Sherlock," I whispered desperately. 

"Cum with me then," Sherlock growled against the bleeding gash. "Cum, John." I let go, my release spattering over my chest and stomach, some painting his own. It took three more long, languid thrusts before he came as well, the warm liquid coating my insides. I let out a heavy breath, and Sherlock rolled over onto one arm to lay down on his side next to me. He planted a gentle kiss on my lips. "Let's rest, pet," he murmured after healing the wound on my neck. He closed his eyes and pulled me close to him as we both drifted off.


	7. Chapter 7

_31_ _May_  I have realized that I've been here a nearly a month now. It... has not been as bad as I'd anticipated, but the emergence of vampires did take me by surprise. Sherlock... has not let me leave, but, admittedly, I have not been trying. He enjoys providing company and I enjoy his company, both physical and verbal. Even when we aren't being intimate, he holds me and kisses me like I did with Mary. I sometimes wonder about Mary, but I suppose it no longer matters. I'm to be back today. I'm not. 

The Count came in to check on us about an hour ago. He brought a glass of blood to us, and sat down in the coffin. "You said he hasn't eaten fresh yet?" James asked, facing Sherlock. 

Sherlock nodded. "He is still a newborn."

"You are too, Sherlock," James said with dark eyes. "Know your place." He handed me the glass, and they both turned to face me. "I need you to drink this."

My eyes went wide. "No! Absolutely not!" I said.

James put a hand on my knee. "You need to eat. We aren't going to let you starve yourself."

"It's disgusting. It's someone else's  _blood,_ " I said, setting the glass glass down. 

"You've had my blood. That wasn't bad, was it?" Sherlock asked. James glanced at him with an inquisitive gaze, before turning back to me. Jim picked up the glass again.

"You aren't human. This; this is," I said, slowly inching away from them.

"John, this is nothing to fear. It won't hurt. The blood won't taste as horrid as it does to humans," James said. He leaned forward and put the up to my lips. 

"Just drink, John. It'll be fine. Trust me," Sherlock said. I squeezed my eyes shut into a grimace and tilted my head back with the jar. The smooth liquid slid down my throat and I made a soft noise at the taste. It wasn't bad, not at all. Quite the opposite, in fact. It was a beautiful mixture of sweet and bitter, and, admittedly, was much more addicting than Sherlock's blood. 

"That's it," James urged quietly. "Just like that." He ran his thumb over my knee gently, watching me drain the jar. They were right, the taste wasn't bad. It was... quite the opposite, honestly. I made another noise. Sherlock pulled the jar away from my lips when the blood was entirely gone. I straightened up and opened my dilated eyes. "See?" he asked. "It wasn't bad. But... I can't give you any more. My supplies are running low." He ran his fingers through my hair.

"Let's get more then," Sherlock said, catching James' wrist and pushing it away. I pulled away from both of them, feeling more object than man. 

"No. Not today," James said. "The girl that you had sent here, and she was a  _girl,_ 11 or younger," Sherlock looked at his folded hands with shame, "gave us a pint of her blood, and was sent home with no memory. We have that for the next week or so, before I'll have to go out."

"Before  _you'll_ have to go out?" I asked softly. "We live here too. We should be able to come with."

"John, if I took anyone with me, it would be Sherlock. At least, he knows the rules and such. Even so, both of you are still so young. Neither of you are truly ready."

"When will we be then? A hundred years from now? A thousand? Why not start now?" 

James grabbed our hands in his. "Alright. Next time I go out, you can come with," he said with a smile. Sherlock looked silently between us and pulled his hand from James' grip, tucking it back in his lap. "Why are you jealous, Sherlock? You two are my family." He turned toward the brunette and smiled. He leaned up and kissed the man's forehead. He turned back toward me and I bowed my head so he could kiss my forehead, but he caught my lips instead.

I pulled away from him. "I don't--"

"John, I know you've thought about it," he murmured.

"Well, of course, but... James, I don't... want that... with you," I said quietly. 

"Fair enough," he said simply and smiled at me. "That would make me... I'm being intrusive, aren't I?" 

"No," I said, as Sherlock said, "Yes." I giggled softly. "He's not being intrusive. We weren't doing anything. He's letting us live here, the least we could do is make small talk," I said with a smile.

Sherlock pouted and I leaned over to kiss him. "It's okay, Sherlock. He's not you. I don't want him," I promise, sealing it with another kiss. "I want you. Only you."


	8. Chapter 8

_19 June_ Yesterday was an interesting day, to say the very least. James came into Sherlock and my room and invited us out to supper at what he said was 'his favourite restaurant.' Sherlock and I were intrigued.

It was just after dawn and the sun was tucked up against the horizon, setting an early morning glow over the town. The air was cool and damp with the promise of rain. We walked down from James' manor and onto the slightly muddied streets of London, each step pressed a centimetre into the unpacked dirt. 

My fingers itched to hold Sherlock's smooth hand as we walked but I feared too greatly of the passers-by. He stepped a bit closer, our coats bunching up between us to hide our hands, and he intertwined our fingers. "It's okay, John," he murmured softly, glancing down at me. He smiled lightly. 

James glanced over at us with an undefinable look dancing over his features. "It's just up ahead," he said tentatively, seeming a bit afraid to interrupt us. 

I stepped away from Sherlock with a smile and turned to face the building. Its walls were crimson brick and the windows were tinted so dark that naught could be seen from outside. I had little expectation that this was a restaurant, as it looked like a place where one would be fearful at the very sight of it. 

James walked to the entrance. James' red eyes peered through a small slit in the door, a set of golden eyes peering back. "Je suis Comte James Moriarty. Laissez-nous dans," _I am Count James Moriarty. Let us in,_ he said quietly. I stared, wide-eyed at the entrancing golden eyes. They blinked and the pupils shifted to lock onto me. Then, Sherlock.  _Click_ and the door opened slightly, creaking as it did so.

James held the door open for us and let us inside.

I felt an overwhelming presence as we stepped inside. I felt the thick,  _inhuman_ feeling cling to the air. My breath caught in my throat. It was dark, but as my eyes adjusted, I could see what was causing the feeling. The man with golden eyes smirked at us. "Sang neuf?"  _New blood?_ he asked with a slight laugh.

"Oui," James said, openly laughing with him. 

"Be wary of your surroundings, children," the man purred, locking onto Sherlock and I. I was terrified, whereas Sherlock simply looked offended.

"I'm not a child," Sherlock growled softly. 

"You are here," James retorted with a sharp tone. "Now be respectful." A girl, with glowing, pure white eyes and a champagne chemise draped over her thin frame, covering only the most lewd parts of her, walked past us, swaying her hips. She flashed a smirk at Sherlock and continued to a booth, sitting down on a man's lap. 

I let out a thick breath and gripped Sherlock's hand tightly. "It's okay, John," he swore softly. 

"They can touch," James warned, looking at everyone in the room. He gestured for us to follow him into a concealed booth.

A waiter came to the booth, covered by nothing more than tight underwear. "What do you wish to have tonight, loves?" the waiter drawled.

"Young. Vegan, preferably," James said with a bit of a grin. He glanced at us. "And the same for them." I narrowed my eyes and looked at the waiter. He smiled at us all. The man left and we sat in an uncomfortable silence. I looked about the room, seeing all manner of being, all of which I was previously unaware. 

The waiter came back with three glasses filled with blood. I blinked for a moment, still getting used to the concept. He set the glasses on the table and left once again. We all took a sip from our glasses and continued to sit in silence. 

I looked around the restaurant again and saw a familiar glint of blonde hair. The woman turned to face me and we were frozen...

 

_To be continued..._


	9. Chapter 9

The blonde turned to face me, a smirk played over her features that fell as she noticed me. Sherlock followed my gaze slowly. "John," he murmured discreetly, "who is that?"

"Sherlock, James," Moriarty turned to face us, eyes narrowed on me, "we have to go."

I began to stand and I heard: "John," as Mary collapsed down into our booth.

"Mary," I echoed back, not hearing the word over the beating of my heart in my throat.

Sherlock looked between us, and his finger ran over the pale skin where my ring had once been. "John, is this--"

"Yes," I said curtly, gripping his hand tightly. James watched silently, warily, obviously prepared to protect us.

"Yes. I'm his wife," Mary said, holding the fury of a waking dragon in her voice. "The wife he abandoned. The wife who thought he was dead." My gaze fell guiltily to the table.

"John," Sherlock murmured, sliding an arm protectively around my shoulders and keeping me close, "it's okay. You're safe."

"Why are you here, Mary?" I asked darkly, watching her every movement.

"Oh, nothing really," Mary replied. Sherlock narrowed his eyes at her.

He said softly, "John." His tone was calm and smooth, the sort of unusual calmness and smoothness that I'd come to recognize as 'be careful, because something's gone wrong.'James' mouth opened a bit, and he drew in a slow breath.

My eyes trailed acutely over Mary, and locked on to a silver pendant, something I had once given her as a gift, which hung around her neck. A cross. She gave a small, crooked smirk, one that had once made me swoon, but now makes me ill. "Nothing really," she repeated, her eyes dark.

Sherlock stood abruptly, his back stiff and straight. He tugged my hand gently and pulled me up. James stood with us. Sherlock gave a polite nod and said to Mary, "I believe we should be on our way." I nodded with him and gave a tight-lipped smile, dread heavy in my stomach. James followed suit and set a few coins on the table for the drinks.

Panic rose in me and I turned back to look at Mary. She wasn't standing. Her face was hard and emotionless.

We left as one, in mixed degrees of fear and confusion and anger. When we got to the door, and eventually, outside, the world was in black and white. What little I could see was dark and dim, lit only by the burnt-out kerosene of the streetlamps.

I saw the fuzzy outlines of buildings of all shapes and sizes, making them look enlarged and distorted. There was no soft patter of horses, no quiet buzz of people's chatter. It felt as if the world had simply stopped. Everyone was tucked away in their beds, sleeping soundly, dreaming, and here we were.

Three unconventional friends, lovers, partners, family members, and protectors. And there, where there was no one else, no Mary, no obligation, no trouble, nothing other James, Sherlock, and I, I felt truly and completely loved.


End file.
